My mother’s father passed away when my mother was six. Throat cancer had gripped his life and he knew that he was about to die in a few weeks. As a young man, in his forties, he was, for a good reason, worried about his six daughters and two sons. He had no property except for a small paddy field and a ramshackled antediluvian house. No source which could yield enough money to sustain the entire family. Eventually, he decided to quit looking for alternatives and took over a conscientious task of writing a guide for his wife’s sake as to how the home is to be nurtured. So he wrote one letter everyday which contained scrupulous details on topics starting from upbringing of the kids and providing bread and butter to the family, to living the ‘life’ in the best manner possible. Each of these beautifully written letters consistently ended with the same sentence: If God wills for my survival for another day, you’ll read more in the next letter. All of this was, of course, in Urdu. He also happened to know Hindi, English, Persian and a bit of Arabic. He had such love and fascination for ‘language’ and its usage that not a single day passed by without using some or the other Urdu/Hindi/Persian couplet in his daily conversation. His favourite – Mirza Asadullah Khan Ghalib.
On the other hand, my father’s father too was a grand lover of poetry. Attending mushairas (poetic meetings) was his routine. Every anecdote that my dad tells me about him contains a pair of Urdu verses. His conversation would remain barren unless a couplet or two were spoken. And again, his favourite – Mirza Asadullah Khan Ghalib. But then, he too was gone by the time I entered this world. The more I’m told about him and his way of life, the more I feel bad for not having met him.
My entire family, from both maternal and paternal sides, has been so much institutionalised by Ghalib, that all they wanted to know was if the new born child was a boy or not. And what if it’s a boy? – He would be named after Ghalib! I have, by virtue of my name, inherited the legacy of poetic love both my granddads had. None of them saw me, but I’m certain if they had, they would have been in love with me, at least for the sake of the name that I carry. What adds spice is the fact that Ghalib’s father’s name was ‘Abdullah’ which also happens to be my father’s name.
Ghalib, undoubtedly, was a brilliant man. He authored around eleven thousand couplets in Persian which, however, failed to bring him accolades that a mere two thousand in Urdu could. Legacy has it that when Sir Syed Ahmed Khan went to him to get a foreword written for his well-researched and illustrated edition of Abul Fazl’s Ai’n-e Akbari, he wrote a Persian poem criticizing Sir Syed for wasting his efforts in writing about something which had happened a few centuries ago. Sir Syed immediately dispensed with all his interests in history and archaeology and became a social reformer. Eventually, he established Mohammedan Anglo Oriental College which was transformed later into Aligarh Muslim University, one of the largest in the country.
But, what made Ghalib so great? They say that a bare philosophical poet cannot do much if he’s leading a good life without being carked. Well, they’re right. It’s the circumstances and environment which makes one write. And Ghalib wrote. He wrote in such fantabulous and dulcet manner that the title ‘Father of Urdu Poetry’ is an underestimation. His views on life, grief and death were as poignant as anything could be. In one such wonderful couplet, he says:
Qaid-e-Hayaat o Band-e-Gham Asl Mein Dono Ek HaiN,
Maut Se Pahle Aadmi Gham Se Nijaat Paaye Kyoun?
The prison of life and the bondage of grief are one and the same,
Before the onset of death, how can one expect to be free of grief?
All this did not come to him out of the blue. He could hardly make peace with his life as he had to brook the death of all his seven kids even before any of them could reach puberty. He then ended up adopting his nephew who too passed away within months of adoption. And all he would do was to write!
Haan Ae Falak-E-Peer, Jawaan Tha Abhi Aarif!
Kya Tera Bigadta Jo Na Marta Koi Din Aur?
(Indeed, O master of the skies, Arif was still young!
What harm would it have done to you if he had died some other day?)
[Read more of the above poem here]
In spite of all this, he had perseverance towards his faith. He prayed and believed that the woes will be gone soon. It didn’t happen, but he still had faith. And he wrote as he waited anxiously for a good turn.
Ghalib! Na Kar Huzoor Mein Tu Baar Baar Arz!
Zaahir Hai Tera Haal Sab Un Par, Kahe Baghair.
Don’t make repeated pleas, Ghalib, to your Lord!
Your situation is evident to Him, even without mentioning it.
His pleas weren’t heeded to. He was in the same state of affairs till he left this world in the year 1869. And now, he rests here, hopefully, in peace. A man of his kind. No one similar shall ever exist on this planet!
Tomb of Mirza Ghalib at Hazrat Nizamuddin in Delhi
Husn Gamze Ki Kashakash Se Chhuta Mere Baad
Baare Aaraam Se Hai Ahl-E-Jafaa Mere Baad
Beauty is spared the strain of ogling after my demise,
Despotic beauties, after me, shall in peace abide.
Mansab-E-Shefatgi Ke Koi Qaabil Na Raha
Hui Maazuli-E-Andaaz-O-Adaa Mere Baad
None now deserves to wear the lover’s honoured badge,
Airs and graces of the beauties will now neglected lie.
Shama Bujhti Hai To Us Main Se Dhuan Uthata Hai
Shola-E-Ishq Siyahposh Hua Mere Baad
When the candle flame is snuffed, smoke begins to rise,
The flame of love has donned the sable after I’ve died.
Khoon Hai Dil Khaak Main Ahwal-E-Butaan Par, Yaani
Unke Naakhun Hue Mohtaaj-E-Hina Mere Baad
My heart bleeds inside the grave when I think of beauties sweet,
And realize that their nails are thirsting for the henna dye.
Kaun Hota Hai Harif-E-Mai-E-Mard-Afgan-E-Ishq
Hai Mukarrar Lab-E-Saaqi Pe Salaa Mere Baad
“Who will drink the bowl of passions overbold?”
There will be no reply to this question once I die.
Gam Se Marta Hoon Ke Itna Nahin Duniya Main Koi
Ke Kare Taaziyat-E-Mehar-O-Wafa Mere Baad
The saddening thought chills my heart that after I’m gone,
Untended and unmourned will love and passion lie.
Aaye Hai Bekasi-E-Ishq Pe Rona ‘Ghalib’
Kiske Ghar Jaayega Sailaab-E-Balaa Mere Baad
The thought of love’s helplessness fills my heart with grief,
Where will the devastating tide go, when it’s done with me?